Voice Like Velvet
by theyleaveanote
Summary: Months into being together, Sherlock decides he needs to conduct a bit of a survey to ensure he's pleasing John appropriately. John is satisfied in every aspect except - he lets slip that he wishes Sherlock would talk dirty. Rated M for naughty reasons and Sherlock's dirty mind. Johnlock.


"John," said Sherlock, as they were brushing their teeth before bed, "I've been meaning to mention. We've been together approximately six months now."

"Is that all?" John muttered through a mouthful of toothpaste, but privately, he felt a rush. _Six months_ since the man he'd been in love and denial with had swept him into his arms one afternoon and stated it was time to act upon their feelings.

"Yes, six months." Sherlock spat neatly into the sink and pat his mouth daintily. "Accordingly, I would like to conduct a performance evaluation of myself as a romantic and sexual partner.

John spat into the sink, not nearly as daintily.

"What?"

"John, as you well know, my actions and behaviors are predicated on carefully conducted experiments and evaluations." Sherlock straightened his pajama top in the mirror and strode off towards the bedroom, calling over his shoulder: "No aspect of my life is to be exempt."

"Not even me?" John demanded, scrubbing his towel across his mouth roughly. He nearly stomped his way into the bedroom, and though he knew the point was likely moot, pushed it further. "You don't think you can leave our relationship out of your experimenting?"

"Nonsense. How else would I conduct myself around you?"

"I don't know, _normally?_"

Sherlock shot him a slightly exasperated look.

"This _is _normal."

John sighed, crawling under the comforter (warm brown, with mild turquoise trimming and wonderfully soft goosefeather eiderdown. Sherlock wanted cheap black, but John had won that one, somehow, and Sherlock had eventually conceded it was a good decision).

"For you, I suppose it is."

"You love me. You know it is. And you still love me."

John sighed again, but a smile slipped onto his face anyway.

"Yes, I know I do."

"I love you too."

John's smile widened, and Sherlock let him bring their lips together briefly, just long enough for John to taste the mint toothpaste and the delicious rich musk of Sherlock's breath.

"Yes," John said, "I know you do."

Sherlock flashed a nearly imperceptible smile and reached to give John's hand a quick squeeze.

"Then let me conduct my evaluation. It's quite brief; I'll just need some basic notes so as to make adjustments." Sherlock was giving his you-know-I-won't-stop-until-you-give-in-and-besides-you-know-I'm-right look. It was a very familiar one.

John shot a brief look of longing at the novel on their bedside table he'd been hoping to finish reading tonight, but then turned back to Sherlock.

"All right, fine. What do I need to do?" he conceded.

Sherlock grinned happily and planted a lingering kiss on John's forehead.

"Simply answer a series of questions as quickly and honestly as you can, though of course, if you are dishonest, I will know."

"Of course," muttered John, fighting to keep from rolling his eyes.

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"First of all – have I appropriately been satisfying your emotional needs?"

John raised an eyebrow.

"Beg pardon?"

"_How can I possibly make that clearer_?" Sherlock muttered under his breath, but continued somewhat amicably. "When you come home frustrated at the shop clerk, or upset about some instance of spilled tea and jam all over your nice new jumper, do I satisfactorily comfort you? When you are pleased, do I adequately share your pleasure? When you are angry, do I calm you, commiserate with you?"

"When I'm angry, you rationalize why I shouldn't be, Sherlock."

"Is that something I'm to work on, then?"

John chuckled, looking into his boyfriend's eyes.

"No, of course not. For God's sake, I love _you_, which is why all of this is bloody foolish. I love you and all your hideous annoyances."

Sherlock rolled his eyes this time.

"Yes, John, I do love you as well, but you're not calling me perfect, we all know that's a bag of bollocks."

"I love your imperfections."

"You are _infuriating_."

"Pot kettle there, darling."

Sherlock's nostrils flared, but John was too happy and vaguely aroused to take him seriously.

"I'll skip to the sexual gratification category then, shall I?"

_"What?_ Sherlock – !"

"You can't deny it's a significantly important component of our relationship," Sherlock pointed out, "and it doesn't necessarily fall under emotional satisfaction, though I've been made to realize that they are intricately linked. So – sexual gratification. There's nothing I can really do about my length or girth, but I'd still like to know, is my size pleasing to you?"

John's face was an unfathomable shade of red, and he was no longer looking at Sherlock.

"C-can't you tell all this from my body language, or the way I take my coffee, or something? Since when have you had to _ask_ anybody anything?"

"I'm not solving your murder, John. And this is a much quicker and more specific approach than simply observing you." Sherlock smiled again. "I have, of course, been gathering observational data, but I would appreciate verbal confirmation of my suspicions on some subjects. Furthermore, you know that I tend to miss something, one thing, and I – I don't want to miss anything with you." John could feel his very ears blushing. "This isn't entirely my area of expertise, anyway."

"All right fine, _yes_, your size is – quite – quite adequate." John cleared his throat. "No complaints."

"Lovely. Oral skills?"

John swallowed hard.

"Sherlock, you know you get me off in next to no time."

"Fingering skills?"

"I just told you!"

"You're satisfied with my typical depth, pressure, number of digits inserted, angle, then, yes?"

"_Yes_, for heaven's sake!" John burrowed deeper under the blankets, uncomfortable both from the questions, and because of the effect Sherlock was having on him without even realizing it.

"Duration of intercourse?"

"You read my body," John squeaked, "I know you do. You know exactly how long to take."

"Foreplay?"

" – yes, lovely," John managed. He clenched his eyes shut and groaned inwardly. Sherlock had heard that hesitation.

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock looked up sharply, tugging at the blanket.

"What's wrong with my foreplay?" He didn't sound hurt or disappointed, only genuinely curious.

"_Nothing_."

"John, foreplay is an integral section of the sexual experience, and in fact tied most closely to that of emotional and sensual gratification. I would prefer to wholly fulfill you in this relationship, but I cannot do that if you do not _tell me what is wrong with my foreplay_." At the last words, Sherlock tugged the blanket aside and slid down next to John, who turned over frantically to avoid eye contact. A rather silly move, as Sherlock simply pulled their bodies closer together, pressing his groin against John's backside, which did not help John's growing arousal. "Would you prefer more of it? Less? Am I too forward?"

"You certainly are too forward, but no, that's not it." John groaned. "Sherlock, it's just – just – " Now absolutely positive that he couldn't turn a brighter red anyway, John reached for Sherlock's hand and placed it onto his own erection.

"You're hard," Sherlock observed bluntly.

"_Yes_."

"But I haven't done anything, foreplay or not." Sherlock prodded at John's pajama-clad crotch inquisitively.

"Yes, you have," John admitted, defeated.

"All I've done – "

" – is talk about sex." John sighed, rolling over hopelessly when Sherlock, predictably, pulled them face-to-face.

It only took Sherlock a moment.

"You like it when I talk to you. You have no conflict with my foreplay, you only wish that I weren't silent during it, that I…_spoke dirty_ to you."

"It just would feel more intimate," John muttered, pointedly looking at Sherlock's left ear.

"And it turns you on to no end. The sound of my voice, that is, particularly when speaking of sexual acts."

John began to realize exactly how absurd this request was – which of course, was why he never voiced it. Sherlock Holmes, dirty talk? His voice was sex itself, but his capability to _talk dirty…_

"I suppose I'll need practice then," Sherlock continued, almost musingly, "and guidance." Before John could register this, Sherlock was stroking his hair back from his bright pink face, brushing his cool lips across John's forehead. "Tell me what you want, John. Tell me what you want me to do to you."

His voice was lower, rougher, Startled, John felt his cock throb at the sound.

"Oh, Sh-Sherlock, really, you don't have to – we can just forget this, all right? Please?"

Ignoring him, Sherlock straddled him, pressing their waists together, letting John feel his own gently hardening cock.

"Tell me how you want me to fuck you, my love," Sherlock breathed, stroking John's hair back, smiling deliciously down at him. "I know you want my cock. You want it, don't you?" He bent over, dusting kisses down John's flushed collarbone. His warm breath sent chills through John's body. Sherlock brushed his lips against John's earlobe, and murmured: "I want to taste you, John. I want to taste your swollen cock." He nibbled at his army doctor's throat, making John's back arch up into him ever so slightly. "I want your hardness in my mouth, I want to taste your delicious precum, I want to taste your cock, wet for want of me." His fingers deftly undid John's pajama top, his lips teasing over erect nipples. "Would you like that?"

"Oh God, _yes_," John couldn't help but whisper, biting his lip.

"You'd like that, then?" Sherlock pulled back, staring at John's face, flushed now mostly from arousal. "You'd like seeing me wrap my lips around the swollen head of your cock, bringing your length into my throat as deep as I can?"

"Y-yes, _Christ_, Sherlock, you _never _say things like that – _ah!_"

Sherlock had done exactly what he promised, yanking down the pajama bottoms and bringing John's manhood as deep into his mouth as he could, until his lips were nuzzling against the soft hairs on John's lower stomach. He worked his tongue around John's length only a few times before pulling back and placing John's hand on John's own wet erection and settling himself next to John on the bed. His fingers traced down John's naked body before spreading the other man's legs further and slipping to rub against John's entrance.

"I'm sorry, my love," he murmured in John's ear "but I can't quite speak with my mouth full. And you are _quite _the mouthful."

John moaned, jacking himself off steadily, pushing against Sherlock's fingers.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked, his voice rich and thick and deep.

"You _know_ what I want – "

"Tell me."

John moaned again, grinding weakly against the slender fingertips.

"You want my fingers inside you?" Sherlock asked quietly, almost dangerously. He let his index finger trace the very outside of John's entrance, stroking it tantalizingly. "You would like me to slip this into you, into your ass?

John nodded frantically.

"Well, all right then," Sherlock said mockingly, and complied, with not one but three fingers all at once. John gave a strangled cry, his body arching off the bed, his grip around his own cock tightening. "Do you like that, John? You like feeling my fingers fuck you, you like feeling them fill you up, stretching you open, claiming you? Because you're mine, you know. All mine." John was grinding down on Sherlock's fingers, his mouth fallen open, his face a picture of pure sexual arousal, spurring Sherlock on. "Do you like that I can feel inside you, that I can touch inside you, that I can touch this spot inside you?" Sherlock had learned long again where John's prostate was, and the exact angle to use to drive him crazy, and he nudged against it, not hard enough to push John close to the edge, only enough to make his breath quicken, his other fist clench the sheets. "You like it, John, that when we're in public, when we're on cases or at dinner or down at the station, that you can look over at my fingers, and know exactly what they feel like inside you? That you can remember, when I'm writing or shaking hands or opening doors, how those very fingers felt buried knuckle deep in your ass, thrusting, just before I bent you over and fucked you until you came, flooding your seed over those fingertips?" Nearly delirious from Sherlock's velvet voice and skilled fingers, John nodded violently, tugging desperately on his cock. He was nearing his edge already, so much quicker than usual. Sherlock could tell.

"Do you want me now, my love, my John? Do you want my cock now; have you tired of my fingers? Do you want to feel my hot thick cock spreading you open?" Sherlock nuzzled his lips wetly against John's throat. "Do you want to feel me thrusting into you from behind, my balls tight with lust for you, swinging against your own with each thrust? Do you want to grind your ass down on my hard, hot cock?"

"_God_, Sherlock, _fuck me!_" John gasped frantically. Sherlock smirked, laid an inconceivably soft kiss on his cheek and flung John on all fours, taking his position behind him quickly.

"Say please," Sherlock ordered, his voice low but stern.

John bit his lip at the humiliation, but Sherlock had withdrawn his fingers and forced John to let go of his own erection and John wanted the pressure back so badly.

"_Please_, Sherlock," John conceded.

"Please what?" came the velvety voice behind him.

"_Fuck me!_ Please _fuck me_!"

Sherlock thrust his own erection into John's desperate asshole, letting out a satisfied throaty rumble at the sensation. He bent forward as he began to rock fast and hard into John, thrusting his practiced hips deep and rough against John's prostate.

"You're so _tight_, John," Sherlock moaned, his voice heavy with lust now, "I can feel you pulling me in, pulling my cock in, _God_, you're incredible…"

John scrambled for his own erection again, pushing back on Sherlock as hard as he could, but Sherlock reached forward and took it in his palm, forcing John back onto all fours.

"No touching anymore, my love, this is my toy now," said Sherlock, the words coming jarred through his harsh deliberate thrusts. "Mm, that's right, press your lovely cock into my hand, press your handsome thick ass back against me, good boy, good boy. I love how tight you are, I love the thickness of your cock, I love covering your beautiful little body with mine, thrusting into you until you make that sound – yes, that one."

John's eyes were clenched shut, the entirety of his being covered by the sensation of Sherlock, everywhere, his voice in John's mind, coaxing him to orgasm, until he couldn't hold on any longer.

Sherlock knew.

"Good boy, cum for me now," he said commandingly, "I can feel your ass tightening, God, John, I'm almost there, you're going to make me cum." Through his delirium, John could very nearly hear him smirk. "Do you want my cum, John? Do you want to feel me cum hot inside you, do you want to feel the great Sherlock release into your ass, your tight fantastic ass that brought me to orgasm? Do you want me to spill my seed into you, to release, to feel my cock throb and erupt into you, to feel my body shake as you make me orgasm?"

With a final moan that sounded something like _Sherlock…_John's body stiffened, his mouth flung open, his cock shooting cum over Sherlock's hand and the bedspread. His ass tightened incredibly around Sherlock, who gave a few last well-placed thrusts that intensified John's orgasm as his own cock released hot and hard into John's ass, making John shudder with sensation.

As the last drops of cum dripped at John's clenching entrance, Sherlock pulled back, and leaned in to say, in an exhausted yet satiated voice just louder than a whisper, _"I love you."_

John collapsed onto his stomach.

"Jesus _fuck_, Sherlock!" he managed. "I love you too."

"That was something like what you wanted?" Sherlock asked, genuinely concerned. He gently cleaned the cum off the cheeks of John's ass with a tissue plucked from the bedside table, taking care not to prod too hard at the aching asshole.

"Yeah, something like that," John said sleepily, his sarcasm faltering in his satisfaction. He snuggled closer to Sherlock, burrowing his face in his chest.

"So that was satisfactory, yes?"

"Yes, very much so." John was nearly asleep.

"_See_? My evaluation was useful," said Sherlock smugly.

John groaned loudly, but smiled into Sherlock's chest.

"I guess there are some times when I don't find your voice ridiculously irritating," he murmured.

Sherlock opened his mouth, somewhat offended, but John yawned cutely and snuggled closer.

"I suppose so," Sherlock said instead, and pulled John towards him.

They fell asleep in each other's arms.

**Epilogue**

Despite the wonders it did for his orgasms, John came to slightly regret telling Sherlock about the power the detective's voice had on his sex drive. Sherlock became rather found of whispering dirty promises in cabs, in restaurants, and even in front of Lestrade, much to everyone's dismay. John began buying trousers a size larger, in order to mask the physical effects of his boyfriend's sultry voice.

**END**


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